


The Devils' Violinist

by Anonymous



Category: Golden Child (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angels, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Deal with a Devil, Fallen Angels, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Survivor Guilt, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26154199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: he is perfect, but at what cost?the once divine violinist plays until his fingers bleed ichor, because that and his hubris are all he has left.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5
Collections: Anonymous





	The Devils' Violinist

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by both the golcha [Wannabe MV](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AnSAGpoqLPg) and the [RTK performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbY-xoex-hw)
> 
> since they look quite angelic in the mv (in the white outfits) and the golden liquid looks like it could be ichor, but then they have the black outfits in both the mv and in the rtk perf AND paganini was known as the devil's violinist 
> 
> thus.. this angsty au was born (feat. tbontb oneus as the demons thanks to an idea from ei)

Joochan stands atop the stage, higher and the closest to Heaven he’s been for years. His hand grips a black and gold violin loosely as he takes a deep breath. Below him, across the ballroom, the six monarchs hold a feast and entertain their fellow demonic guests. If he breathes in deeply- if he holds his head up to the ceiling, Joochan can still fool himself into hearing the choir of angels he once knew. 

He lifts the violin and begins to play. 

The notes come out sweet, soft, not yet crescendoing. His bow feels light in his hand; his playing is effortless. His posture is perfect, his music is perfect, the movement of his fingers is perfect.  _ He _ is perfect, is he not? The thought would make him laugh. Instead he plays louder before dropping the volume again. He can feel all eyes on him, the ballroom has fallen completely silent as every single demon turns to watch him. 

He used to command like this. He used to watch entire battlefields sink to their knees in awe and fear as he glowed with divine light, accompanied by the choir -  _ his  _ choir. He used to lead the procession for returning armies of Heaven, playing in victory for those that returned and in mourning for those they lost. He used to play for banquets like this - feasts of celebration. The black violin in his hand mocks him now, the golden engravings in the wood mirror the scars on his heart. He used to play for the lost - to bring them home. 

But now he is the one who is lost - and he will never return home. 

His heart lies heavy in his chest, chained down and soulless. He has never been more aware of the twisted white horns that rise up from his head, disturbing his pink hair. He was beautiful once - gorgeous, stunning, ethereal. Perhaps he still is - beautiful in moments like this. He watches the six monarchs as he plays, observes them with a blessed golden eye and a cursed crimson one. He could blame them, it would be so easy to give in to his anger - to curse and rage at them. But that is exactly what they want to see from him - the divine violinist of the Heavens - to see him truly fall and give in, to break apart that image and the mask he still carries and wears to this day. Dressed in black robes - instead of white - lined with gold, with wings of blackened and charred feathers, he is divine in nothing but his memories. 

When he closes his eyes, hears only his music, he imagines he can smell the sweetness of Heaven. Glowing skies, fine silk, golden paths that take him to his family, his choir. Divine, divine, divine. A beautiful, intricate halo above his head; a display of his high status. 

The Divine Violinist. 

Honoured and revered by all, striving for perfection above all else. His choir would laugh, would tease - they were already perfect, angelic and pure, each of them a tenth of a whole. But that was never enough for Joochan. He could be better, he knew he could be. 

He can see them so clearly now, through the darkness behind his eyelids. The ballroom melts away around him and he can feel himself standing on a stage -  _ his  _ stage - in Heaven. His movements do not slow but he feels the strength he pours into each note, each slide of his bow draws out a sound more beautiful than the last. More perfect. In this memory he still holds in his heart, this memory that he wishes he could return to, his violin is white not black and he smiles out of joy, not hatred. In this moment, this memory of a time long since passed, it is only him. Only him and the nine other angels he holds close to his heart. He hears them sing and his white knuckled grip on his bow loosens, just a little. He can see them smiling around him as he plays his solo, watching him with pride and awe and love. And for a moment, his heart lifts once more, breaking free of its chains if only for a second - because he sees. He  _ sees _ Jangjun’s grin, he  _ sees  _ Sungyoon winking at him, he sees- 

His note falters. His fingers twitch. His hands shake. His eyes snap open and he meets the stare of one of the demons - hair the colour of flames, orange and burning, burning, burning, just like Joochan’s heart in his chest and the empty space where his soul once was. 

He keeps playing, blinking as he lifts his gaze to the chandelier that hangs above the main banquet table. But once the memories have begun, he finds he does not have the power to stop them. The room swirls in a spiral of colour once more and he stands at the centre of a battlefield. But he is  _ perfect _ \- the word tastes like poison on his tongue - and he does not stop playing once, not even as tears spill down his cheeks, not even as his wings burn, burn,  _ burn _ on his back, not even as his halo shatters and cascades down in sparks of light. 

He is perfect, but at what cost? 

He sees Daeyeol, he cannot bear to keep looking but his eyes won’t obey. Daeyeol smiles, of course he does, the eldest of their group smiles at him with understanding. He hears Bomin laugh somewhere to the side, but the sound is forced, strangled, choked. They’re standing around him in beautiful outfits of pure white, splattered with golden roses- roses, just roses, only roses, Joochan tells himself,  _ convinces _ himself, because the truth is worse. So much worse. 

He blinks. And his tears fall - they fall one by one along with his friends. He is left on an empty field, dust swirling at his feet, playing his violin as Death comes to take the souls of the fallen angels. But not Joochan’s - he wants to sob, to scream, to close his eyes, but he can’t. 

He has no soul to be taken; he already sold his. 

He blinks and he’s back in the ballroom. Through his tears, he sees the monarchs staring at him, their gazes triumphant and hungry. Six devils who made him what he is, who gave him all the power and the strength he had desired, who listened to him, and made him what he wanted to be - perfect. 

He believed he could be better. He knew there was more power within him to be more than he was. He sold his soul for his music but when Death came for the other nine angels - his friends, his family - he found himself wishing he hadn’t, if only so that Death could take his soul with the others and they would stay together. But, of course, he had none left to be taken. 

He draws out the final note, his fingers pressing hard into the strings until he finishes. The room erupts in applause and the taste of pride has never been so bitter to him. He does not realise until he leaves the stage, until he no longer feels demonic eyes on him, that his cheeks are not the only things wet. His throat is dry and his back burns, aches, throbs, where his wings sit ruined and only a fraction of their former glory. His fingers sting and when he lifts them up, gold runs down his palm and past the ends of his sleeve. Ichor. He laughs to himself; a broken sound punctuated by breathless sobs. It is a final sick reminder of the divinity he once had, of the life he once lived, of the nine others that had left him behind. He can curse the demons all he wants, unleash his anger at the forces of Life and Death and at destiny for deciding when his friends would fall. He can let his rage burn him up from the inside out, filling in the gap where his empty soul bleeds black instead of gold. But he knows- he knows he cannot blame any _ thing _ nor any _ one. _

For his own hubris is what has led him to his fate - to be the Devils’ violinist. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing golcha so comments/feedback appreciated but not required!! ♡
> 
> you can find me here  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/jjxneus) ♡ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/jjxneus)


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